Most people carry some kind of ledger.

Some are literal, but many are internal: quiet scorecards that track accomplishments, failures, credentials, and comparisons. These ledgers help people measure whether they are succeeding, whether they matter, and how they stack up against others. They can offer a fleeting sense of satisfaction, but they often leave behind resentment, anxiety, and a diminished capacity for gratitude.

Philippians 3 speaks directly into that way of living. In this chapter, Paul takes a long, honest look at the ledger he once trusted and discovers that Christ has changed the math entirely.

Paul looks at all the things he once counted as gain and declares them loss compared to the surpassing value of knowing Christ.

Paul’s résumé is, by the standards of his world, deeply impressive. He can point to covenantal belonging, religious pedigree, zeal, and blamelessness under the law. He knows exactly how seductive such credentials can be. He knows how easily human beings build identity out of the things that make them feel secure, superior, or righteous.

But then comes the pivot. Paul introduces the trapdoor word: yet. What seemed like a sturdy platform suddenly gives way. Everything he once counted as gain becomes loss because of Christ. Even the holiest parts of his résumé cannot do what only grace can do.

The Ledger and the Rat Race

The sermon framed this passage through the image of a ledger and the exhausting “rat race” it creates. Ledgers are not just about money or achievements; they are about self-justification. They are the ways people quietly say, “Look at me. See why I matter. See why I’m enough.”

Paul’s concern is not that every accomplishment is bad or that every identity marker is meaningless. The problem is deeper: people begin trusting those things more than grace. They begin relying on performance, belonging, or achievement to give them the righteousness and security that only Christ can give.

The things people use to prove themselves can quietly become the things they trust more than grace.

That truth is not confined to the ancient world. Modern ledgers may look different, but they function in much the same way. They can take the form of degrees on the wall, reputation in the community, money in the bank, children who perform well, political opinions one feels proud to hold, or a carefully maintained sense of being one of the “good ones.” The content changes, but the temptation remains the same.

Christ Meets People in Their Need

At the heart of the sermon was the claim that Christ does not wait for people to become impressive enough before claiming them. Christ does not love them because they have kept every plate spinning or balanced every account. Christ meets them in the middle of their need.

That is what Paul is getting at when he speaks of wanting to “gain Christ and be found in him,” not with a righteousness of his own, but with a righteousness that comes from God as gift. This is not something people earn; it is something they receive.

Christ is not auditing human accomplishments. In Christ, people are already claimed by grace.

That grace is not merely a comforting thought. It changes how people live. When they no longer have to prove themselves worthy, they become freer to stop comparing, freer to breathe, freer to serve, and freer to encourage others. The rat race loses its grip when the ledger is no longer the measure of a life.

Running Your Own Race

One of the sermon’s most memorable companion images came from the Bluey episode “Baby Race.” In that story, comparison begins to steal joy from a mother who is anxiously measuring her child’s development against everyone else’s. What loosens her grip on that parenting ledger is a simple word of grace: “You’re doing great.”

That scene became a powerful illustration of Paul’s point. Once people stop measuring themselves against one another, they become freer to live with joy, gratitude, and generosity. They can run their own race rather than spending their lives glancing sideways at everyone else.

The gospel interrupts the rat race and replaces the ledger with love.

That is good news not only for those who feel crushed by impossible standards, but also for those who find themselves measuring others. When grace becomes the foundation, human beings are freed to stop keeping score and to begin helping one another live as beloved people rather than anxious competitors.

Pressing On in Grace

Philippians 3 does not end in passivity. Paul still says that he presses on. He still speaks of striving forward, of laying hold of the life to which Christ has called him. But the difference is crucial: he is not striving in order to earn God’s love. He is pressing on because Christ has already laid hold of him.

That distinction matters for Christian discipleship. People still love, serve, work, parent, pray, forgive, and try again. But they do not do these things to earn grace. They do them because grace has already found them.

People do not press on to earn God’s grace. They press on because grace has already laid hold of them.

This is where the sermon finally landed: in an invitation to put down the ledger, to stop balancing the book one more time, and to trust that Christ is not waiting at the finish line with a red pen. Christ gathers up the whole messy account of human life—the gains, the losses, the griefs, the striving—and says, “You are found in me.”

That is the good news of Philippians 3. In a world addicted to comparison, competition, and self-justification, Christ offers something better: a life grounded not in anxious proving, but in grace. And from that place of grace, people can help one another hear the words so many long to receive: you are loved, you are already enough in Christ, and you do not have to keep score anymore.

Reflection Questions

• What kinds of ledgers do you find yourself carrying in your own life?
• What achievements, identities, or comparisons are you tempted to trust more than grace?
• What does it mean for you to be “found in Christ” rather than in your performance?
• Who in your life may need to hear a word of grace instead of one more scorecard?

This post reflects themes from a sermon preached by Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing at Guilford Park Presbyterian Church on Sunday, May 10, 2026.

Much of life in our culture is organized around getting to “the top.” Success is often measured by visibility, wealth, influence, or power. People are taught to climb, compete, and protect their place. In such a world, neighbors can begin to look like obstacles, and human worth can become tangled up with status and self-advancement.

Philippians 2 offers a strikingly different vision.

In this passage, Paul turns from encouragement to exhortation. He urges the church toward unity, humility, and shared love, suggesting that the community in Philippi was wrestling with the same temptations that still confront the church today: selfish ambition, rivalry, and the lure of climbing higher than others. But instead of scolding them, Paul answers with song.

Paul does not answer the church’s temptation toward pride with shame. He answers it with a hymn.

That hymn, so beloved by the early church, tells the story of Jesus Christ in a way that cuts against every distorted vision of power. Though Christ is in the form of God, he does not grasp at status. He empties himself. He takes the form of a servant. He humbles himself even to the point of death on a cross. Only then comes exaltation.

In other words, Paul presents a Savior who does not show the way up, but the way down.

A Different Kind of Power

That matters because there is never a shortage of distorted images of Jesus in the world. Again and again, the church is tempted by visions of Christ that are wrapped in dominance, spectacle, grievance, or national power. Such versions of Jesus are used to justify control, fear, and self-importance. But the Christ of Philippians 2 refuses all of that.

The Jesus of this hymn does not seize power as a weapon. He does not dominate. He does not crush. He stoops. He serves. He pours himself out.

The Jesus of Philippians 2 does not climb higher. He stoops lower.

This is not only a theological claim. It is a deeply practical one. It challenges the church to ask what kind of life truly reflects the mind of Christ. Paul does not leave that question floating in abstraction. He points to recognizable people whose lives make Christ’s humility visible.

The Mind of Christ in Ordinary People

To keep the “mind of Christ” from sounding distant or unattainable, Paul names two people the Philippians already know well: Timothy and Epaphroditus. These are not grand heroes grasping for influence. They are ordinary believers whose lives have been shaped by concern for others.

Epaphroditus had been sent by the church in Philippi to bring Paul provisions, comfort, and solidarity during his imprisonment. In caring for Paul, he became gravely ill, nearly to the point of death. Yet Paul holds him up not as a tragic figure, but as a living example of Christlike self-giving love.

Timothy is described with equal warmth. Paul emphasizes his genuine concern for others and his refusal to seek his own advantage. In Timothy, the church sees a flesh-and-blood picture of humility: not status-seeking, not self-promoting, but attentive to the needs of others.

The mind of Christ becomes visible when ordinary people stop grasping for the top and begin pouring themselves out in love.

This reminder is important. The church does not learn faithfulness only from extraordinary saints. It also learns it from beloved, familiar people whose daily lives have been quietly shaped by Jesus.

The Way of Jesus and the Life of the Church

The sermon made clear that this is the kind of life the church is called to embody: not a life obsessed with appearances or public dominance, but one shaped by mercy, service, and self-emptying love. The way of Jesus is not about showing off, fearmongering, or using faith as a tool of control. It is about kneeling at the feet of neighbors, towel in hand, ready to serve.

That vision has urgent implications. It suggests that Jesus is less concerned with faith displayed for spectacle and more concerned with love made visible in public life. It suggests that Christ cares less about religious posturing and more about whether children are safe, neighbors are fed, and human beings are treated with dignity. It suggests that the church best bears witness not when it grasps for power, but when it follows Jesus downward into compassion, humility, and service.

It is impossible to wash someone’s feet while spending all one’s energy trying to climb above them.

That is why Philippians 2 remains such a searching text. It forces a choice. Lives can be filled with the endless pursuit of influence, domination, and self-importance. Or they can be shaped by the downward way of Christ: a life of mercy, service, and love that kneels instead of grasps.

Singing the Faith We Need

One of the most beautiful features of this passage is Paul’s decision to sing rather than simply argue. Hymns have long given the church a way to embody shared theology and resist the false stories that distort faithful life. The early church sang this hymn because it taught them who Jesus is and, just as importantly, what kind of people they were becoming.

The same remains true now. The church still needs songs that teach humility over pride, service over domination, and self-giving love over spectacle. It still needs to be reminded, in word and melody alike, that Jesus shows the way down.

The church becomes more faithful when it fills itself not with the hunger for power, but with the song of Christlike love.

In the end, this sermon offered both challenge and invitation. The challenge is to recognize how often the way up still appeals to the human heart. The invitation is to follow the One who empties himself, stoops low, and teaches his people to love in the same way.

This is the Jesus the church proclaims. This is the Jesus the church is called to resemble. And this is the good news of Philippians 2: that the mind of Christ is not only something to admire, but a way of life to be received, practiced, and sung together.

Reflection Questions

• Where do you see the culture’s obsession with “the top” shaping the way people understand success and worth?
• What does the self-emptying Christ of Philippians 2 reveal about the true nature of power?
• Who are the “Timothys” and “Epaphrodituses” in your life whose ordinary faithfulness has made Christ visible to you?
• What might it look like this week to follow Jesus in the way down rather than the way up?

This post reflects themes from a sermon preached by Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing at Guilford Park Presbyterian Church on Sunday, April 26, 2026.

The story of Eutychus in Acts 20 is one of the Bible’s strangest and most memorable scenes. A young man falls asleep during Paul’s long sermon, tumbles from a third-story window, and is later taken up alive. It begins almost like comedy and then turns suddenly serious. And yet, in all its oddness, this story offers a surprisingly tender word for the church.

Eutychus is not simply an unusual biblical character from a long-ago story. He represents something deeply familiar. He is the weary soul struggling to stay awake. He is the distracted worshiper hovering at the edges. He is the person caught between wanting to belong and feeling too tired, uncertain, or overwhelmed to stay fully present.

Eutychus stands in for all those who find themselves in the window—not fully in, not fully out, suspended between fatigue and faith.

That image feels especially timely. Many people arrive at church already tired—tired from anxious schedules, hard conversations, parenting, grief, caregiving, uncertainty, and the relentless churn of daily life. In a weary world, worship cannot be merely an intellectual exercise. It must become a place where grace is encountered not only through words, but through the whole life of the body.

More Than Words Alone

One of the sermon’s central insights was that Eutychus seems to be receiving only one kind of nourishment that evening: words. He listens and listens, but the rest of his embodied humanity is left unattended. From that angle, the story becomes more than a cautionary tale about long sermons. It becomes an invitation to ask what kind of worship truly sustains tired people.

Human beings do not live by words alone. They need grace they can taste and touch, see and smell. They need belonging that is felt, not merely explained. They need worship that remembers that bodies matter.

The body is not an obstacle to worship. The body is where worship begins.

That truth is often easier for children to understand than for adults. Children know instinctively that faith is lived through movement, sound, touch, repetition, and presence. They wiggle. They wonder. They sing. They ask questions. They respond with their whole selves. And perhaps that is not immaturity to be corrected, but wisdom to be honored.

A Church That Notices the Window

The story of Eutychus also presses an important question upon the church: how can communities of faith notice those who are sitting in the window before they slip?

There are many people who live in that space. Some stand at the edges because they are exhausted. Others because they are grieving. Some because they have been hurt by the church. Others because they are unsure they belong. Some are children; some are parents; some are older adults; some are quietly carrying burdens no one else can see.

The call of the church is not to shame them for being in the window. The call is to bring them closer to the center of grace.

A healthy church does not leave weary, wiggly, wondering people at the margins. It welcomes them to the center.

This is one reason embodied memories of faith matter so much. Many people do not remember childhood sermons word for word, but they do remember the feel of church life: candlelight on Christmas Eve, music that shook the room, the smell of breakfast cooking in the kitchen, bells ringing, voices singing, hands serving, feet moving. Long before grace could be articulated, it could be experienced.

The church at its best offers that kind of faith: not abstract, disembodied religion, but a life with God that can be felt and known in the bones.

Why This Matters on Preschool Celebration Sunday

On Preschool Celebration Sunday, this message takes on added resonance. The ministry of a church preschool embodies exactly the kind of grace this sermon described. In such a place, children encounter love long before they can define it. They are met by teachers who kneel to their level, wipe tears, tie shoes, sing songs, read stories, guide big feelings, and communicate again and again: you are safe, you are loved, you belong.

That is not separate from the church’s witness. It is part of the church’s witness. It is gospel work.

Long before children can explain grace, they are already experiencing it.

That is good news not only for children, but for parents as well. Many parents carry profound hopes for their children alongside very real exhaustion. They want their children not simply to succeed, but to grow into people shaped by compassion, justice, mercy, courage, and trust in God. The church has the privilege of helping nurture exactly that kind of faith.

Every time a congregation makes room for children, blesses their wiggles, supports their families, and treats their questions as holy, it is participating in the work of Christ. Every time someone is drawn in from the edges and reminded that they belong, the gospel is being enacted.

Grace at the Center

In the end, the story of Eutychus is not just about a fall. It is about a community that does not let the fallen one remain alone. It is about being gathered up, held close, and restored to life. That makes it a fitting story for the church in every generation.

There are always people in the window. There are always bodies that are tired, hearts that are uncertain, and lives that are stretched thin. The church is called to be the kind of place where such people are not overlooked, but embraced.

Faith is not merely something to be explained. It is something to be experienced, shared, and lived.

That is part of the good news proclaimed in this sermon: Jesus Christ still notices those at the edges. Christ still gathers up the weary. Christ still brings people from the margins to the center of grace. And communities shaped by that grace become places where children, families, and all kinds of tired souls can discover that they are safe, loved, and fully alive in God’s care.

Thanks be to God for churches that do not leave people in the window. Thanks be to God for ministries that help bring children to the center. And thanks be to God for the grace of Jesus Christ, which still holds people close and brings them alive again.

Reflection Questions

• What does the figure of Eutychus reveal about the weariness many people carry into worship?
• How can the church better engage the whole person, not just the mind?
• Who in today’s world may be living “in the window,” longing to be noticed and welcomed in?
• What does it look like for a congregation to bless wiggly, weary, wondering bodies as part of its life together?

This post reflects themes from a sermon preached by Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing at Guilford Park Presbyterian Church on Sunday, April 19, 2026.

A Joy That Can’t Be Chained

A reflection on Philippians 1:1–30 | Second Sunday of Easter | April 12, 2026

Editor’s Note: This article is adapted from a sermon preached by Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing at Guilford Park Presbyterian Church. It has been edited for web reading while preserving the heart, tone, and theological movement of the original message.

There are, it seems, at least two different versions of Paul in the New Testament.

There is what we might call grumpy Paul: sharp-edged, irritated, exasperated, ready to scold. And then there is lovey-dovey Paul: warm, affectionate, grateful, and overflowing with tenderness. If Galatians gives us Paul with his jaw clenched, Philippians gives us Paul with his heart open.

So what changed?

In part, it may have been something wonderfully ordinary. When Paul was imprisoned for preaching the gospel, the Philippian church did not forget him. They sent Epaphroditus to bring provisions, support, and companionship. Yes, perhaps even snacks. But more than that, they sent care. They sent solidarity. They sent a reminder that Paul was not alone.

The Philippians did not just send Paul provisions. They sent him partnership in the gospel.

And from that prison cell, Paul wrote one of the most joy-filled letters in the New Testament.

Joy in the Middle of It

Philippians is not a letter written from comfort. It does not emerge from ease, convenience, or stability. Paul writes from confinement, uncertainty, and suffering. And yet joy keeps rising to the surface.

That matters, because the joy Paul speaks of is not shallow optimism. It is not denial. It is not a polished, curated, everything-is-fine kind of spirituality. It is not the sort of joy that depends on life going smoothly.

It is a joy that has seen some things.

It is a joy that knows hardship and still dares to sing.

It is a joy found not in the absence of struggle, but right in the middle of it.

Joy in Christ is not the reward for finally getting everything under control. It is the gift of Christ’s presence right in the middle of it.

That kind of joy feels especially urgent in a weary and anxious world. How do we find joy when the bills keep coming, the children are melting down, the news is relentless, and the future feels fragile? How do we keep going when so much seems too heavy to carry?

Paul’s answer is not that suffering disappears. His answer is that Christ is still present. The good news is still alive. Therefore, joy is still possible.

You Do Not Have to Fix Everything

One of the great burdens many of us carry is the belief that everything somehow depends on us. We are shaped by a culture of individualism that teaches us to manage, optimize, perform, and solve. We are told, implicitly and explicitly, that if something is broken, it is our job to fix it.

But much of life cannot be fixed that way.

There are wounds too deep, systems too tangled, and griefs too vast for any one person to carry alone. And when we try, we often end up exhausted, discouraged, or numb.

That is why this word from Philippians feels like good news. Paul cannot fix his imprisonment. He cannot control the motives of other preachers. He cannot determine what happens next. But he can rejoice. He can remain faithful. He can keep bearing witness to Christ.

I cannot fix everything. But by the grace of God, I can be faithful somewhere.

That is a word many of us need to hear. Faithfulness is not the same as solving the whole world. Sometimes faithfulness means attending to what Christ has placed in front of us today: loving our children well, telling the truth, showing kindness, tending a friendship, making a meal, offering a prayer, staying present to our neighbors, refusing despair.

We do not need to carry everything. We are simply called to be faithful somewhere.

Backyard Joy

This kind of joy is not only theological. It is deeply practical. It shows up in ordinary places.

After a long Lent, a full Easter Sunday, and yet another exhausting week shaped by a chaotic news cycle, there came a moment of complete weariness. The instinct in such moments is often to withdraw, to disappear, to shut the door and turn inward. And certainly, rest matters. But sometimes rest is not the same thing as retreat.

Sometimes rest looks like reaching out.

So one evening, a few friends gathered in a backyard. The grill was hot with burgers, hot dogs, sweet potatoes, and peppers. Children ran around in princess costumes. A fire flickered. The grass had just been cut. Yacht rock drifted through the air while adults debated whether Steely Dan belonged on the playlist.

Nothing in the wider world had been resolved by that little gathering. The headlines were still grim. The questions remained. The burdens had not vanished.

And yet there was joy.

Not solutions. Not certainty. Just joy: simple, ordinary, local joy.

There was friendship. There was laughter. There was food. There was welcome. There was the simple holiness of people making room for one another. In a world so often dominated by fear, division, and exhaustion, that kind of shared life matters.

It is not a distraction from discipleship. It is part of what sustains discipleship.

Without joy, we do not have much strength for love, justice, truth-telling, or endurance. Joy is not a luxury item in the Christian life. It is nourishment.

Christ in Prison Cells and Backyards

That is part of what Paul teaches us in Philippians. Christ is not only present in the dramatic or obviously sacred moments. Christ meets us in prison cells and sanctuaries, in hospital rooms and dinner tables, in sorrow and in laughter, in public worship and in quiet hospitality.

Joy in Christ is not built on perfect circumstances. It is grounded in the stubborn truth that the risen Jesus keeps showing up in ordinary life.

That means Christ may be present in a care package delivered to someone in despair. Christ may be present in a casserole left on a doorstep. Christ may be present in a porch conversation, a prayer, a hospital visit, or a shared meal in the backyard.

Maybe joy is not something we manufacture for ourselves so much as something Christ keeps handing to us through one another.

That is what the church is meant to be: a community where people keep showing up for one another with tangible grace. Sometimes we get to be like Epaphroditus, carrying care to those whose spirits are chained down by grief or weariness. Sometimes we are the ones receiving that care. Both are holy. Both are part of the life of Christ among us.

The going out and the coming in of such grace is called church.

A Joy That Can’t Be Chained

And that, finally, is the good news of Philippians 1.

The chains do not get the last word.

Prison does not get the last word.

Fear does not get the last word.

Exhaustion does not get the last word.

Even now, Christ is still alive in the world, still meeting people in ordinary places, still creating communities of care, still making joy possible right in the middle of hardship.

So thanks be to God for a joy that cannot be manufactured, cannot be forced, cannot be staged, and cannot be chained.

It is a joy that comes to us as grace.

It is a joy that Christ keeps alive through one another.

It is a joy that sustains us to be faithful somewhere.

Reflection Questions

• Where are you feeling the pressure to fix what you cannot fix?
• What has Christ placed in front of you today as an opportunity for faithfulness?
• Where have you experienced simple, ordinary joy lately?
• Who has been an Epaphroditus in your life, and for whom might you be called to be one now?

Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing preached this message on Sunday, April 12, 2026, at Guilford Park Presbyterian Church.

The Good News Is...Rooted in Justice, Mercy, and Faithfulness

A reflection on John 8:2–11 and Matthew 23:23 | Fifth Sunday in Lent

We live in a time marked by division, outrage, and increasing impatience with complexity. So much of modern life trains us to react quickly, speak loudly, and sort people into categories before we have taken time to see them clearly. In that environment, nuance often feels like a casualty.

Yet in the Gospel story of the woman brought before Jesus, nuance is exactly what grace makes room for.

When a Person Becomes a Problem

In John 8, the scribes and Pharisees interrupt Jesus while he is teaching and place before him a woman accused of adultery. She is not treated as a person with a story, a history, or dignity. She is used as a test case, a trap, a public spectacle. Her accusers are interested in winning an argument and preserving their authority. The woman herself becomes collateral damage.

That dynamic is not confined to the ancient world. It still happens whenever people are reduced to talking points, whenever moral certainty drowns out compassion, and whenever public shaming takes precedence over truth, healing, or accountability.

“Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.”

Jesus refuses to let the crowd discuss sin in the abstract. He forces them to reckon with the human being standing in front of them.

The Spiritual Power of the Pause

Before Jesus speaks, he bends down and writes on the ground. The text never tells us what he wrote. But perhaps the more important detail is that he pauses at all.

In a moment charged with accusation, fear, and pressure, Jesus does not rush to perform. He does not match the crowd’s urgency with more urgency. He creates space. He slows the moment down. He resists spectacle.

That pause matters. It reminds us that faithfulness is not always found in immediate reaction. Sometimes discipleship looks like restraint. Sometimes wisdom begins when we stop long enough to ask better questions.

Questions Worth Writing in the Sand

The Gospel leaves Jesus’ writing unnamed, which invites our imagination. Perhaps he was sketching questions the crowd did not want to consider:

• Was this woman allowed to speak for herself?
• Was this relationship consensual?
• Why is she the only one standing accused?
• Who benefits when punishment becomes public theater?

Whether or not those were the literal words in the dust, they reflect the spirit of what Jesus is doing: reintroducing moral depth into a conversation that had become harsh, shallow, and dangerously self-righteous.

Justice, Mercy, and Faithfulness Belong Together

The sermon’s companion text from Matthew 23:23 is key here. Jesus rebukes religious leaders for their meticulous attention to minor matters while neglecting what he calls “the weightier matters of the law: justice and mercy and faith.” He does not dismiss the law. He calls people back to its deepest purpose.

Jesus calls us to hold the law in one hand and justice, mercy, and faithfulness in the other.

This is not a rejection of holiness or moral seriousness. It is a refusal to use righteousness as a weapon. It is a reminder that God’s justice is never severed from God’s mercy, and that true faithfulness is never indifferent to the vulnerable.

The story also invites Christians to be careful and humble in how we speak about Jewish law. Jesus is not rejecting Judaism. Rather, he stands firmly within a tradition that values faithful interpretation, moral responsibility, and protection of the vulnerable. His response is not a departure from God’s law, but a witness to its heart.

The Stones We Still Carry

Most of us are not literally standing in a crowd with rocks in our hands. But we do carry other kinds of stones: shame, contempt, gossip, caricature, self-righteousness, online cruelty, and the need to win.

Lent is a fitting season to ask what we have been clutching too tightly. What assumptions are we unwilling to release? What judgments do we enjoy making? Whom have we turned into an issue instead of seeing them as a child of God?

To follow Jesus is, in part, to learn how to put those stones down.

A Wider Mercy

At the close of the sermon, the congregation sang, “There’s a Wideness in God’s Mercy.” That hymn captured the sermon’s hope beautifully. In a world eager to condemn, God makes room for mercy. In a world obsessed with spectacle, Jesus restores dignity. In a world that rewards outrage, Christ teaches us the holy discipline of pause, humility, and compassion.

“There’s a wideness in God’s mercy, and there’s a kindness in God’s justice.”

That is good news for all of us. Because every one of us has stood in need of grace. And every one of us is called to become the kind of community where justice is tempered by mercy, truth is joined to humility, and no one is reduced to the worst thing said about them.

Reflection Questions

• Where do you see people turned into issues rather than treated as persons made in God’s image?
• What might it look like to practice Jesus’ pause in your own life this week?
• What “stones” are you being called to lay down?
• How can we, as a church, embody justice, mercy, and faithfulness together?

Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing preached this message on Sunday, March 22, 2026, at Guilford Park Presbyterian Church.

As we continue through Lent, one of the invitations of this season is to let God soften us—to remember who we are, whose we are, and what kind of people Jesus calls us to be. This week’s scriptures from Deuteronomy and Matthew remind us that the heart of God bends toward the vulnerable: toward children, toward strangers, toward those who are hungry, overlooked, or easily pushed aside.

“The kingdom is open to all, but again and again Jesus insists that it is the vulnerable, the overlooked, the little ones, who are nearest its center.”

“You Were a Child Once, Too”

Fred Rogers once offered a line of wisdom to a group of ophthalmologists who were trying to care more gently for children in their offices: You were a child once, too. It is such a simple sentence, but it carries extraordinary spiritual weight. It asks adults to remember vulnerability from the inside. It asks us not to dismiss fear, not to rush past tenderness, not to treat children as interruptions.

That sentence also opens up this week’s gospel beautifully. In Matthew 19, children are being brought to Jesus so that he might bless them, and the disciples try to send them away. The disciples assume Jesus has more important things to do. They assume this is grown-up business.

But Jesus will have none of it. He rebukes them and says, “Let the children come to me, and do not stop them, for it is to such as these that the kingdom of heaven belongs.”

“For those who follow Jesus, the vulnerable are not interruptions. They are where the kingdom shows up first.”

The Vulnerable at the Center

One of the striking truths of scripture is that God does not treat vulnerable people as peripheral. Over and over again, they are brought to the center. In Deuteronomy 24, God commands the people not to squeeze every possible bit of profit from their fields. Some grain is to be left behind. Some olives are to remain on the tree. Some grapes are to stay on the vine. Why? So that the stranger, the orphan, and the widow might eat.

This is not charity as an afterthought. It is justice built into the life of the community. God’s people are commanded to organize their common life in such a way that the vulnerable are protected and cared for.

And the reason God gives is memory: “Remember that you were a slave in Egypt.” In other words, do not forget what it feels like to be powerless. Do not forget what it feels like to depend on mercy.

A Kingdom Measured by Compassion

Jesus carries that same logic forward. He welcomes the children not only because they matter, but because they reveal something essential about the kingdom of heaven. The kingdom is not built around status, power, or self-importance. It is revealed in humility, dependence, tenderness, and welcome.

To say that the kingdom belongs to such as these is to say that God’s reign is most clearly seen wherever vulnerable people are received with dignity, care, and joy.

What This Means Here and Now

These texts are not merely ancient ideals. They confront us in the present tense. In Guilford County, too many children live with food insecurity. Too many families face barriers just trying to get groceries on the table. It should not be this hard to feed a child.

When Jesus says, “Let the children come to me,” it is not a sentimental line. It is a summons. It asks what kind of society we are building, what kind of church we are becoming, and whether our habits and priorities make room for the vulnerable or push them aside.

“Too often, our nation’s policies and priorities tell children and their families: your hunger is not urgent enough.”

Lent is a good season for facing such truths honestly. It is a season for repentance, yes, but also for reorientation. We are invited to turn again toward the heart of God.

Remembering as a Spiritual Practice

There is a deep connection between the words of Deuteronomy and the wisdom Fred Rogers offered. Deuteronomy says: remember that you were once a slave in Egypt. Fred Rogers says: remember that you were once a child, too.

Both are calls to sacred remembering. Remember what fear feels like. Remember what helplessness feels like. Remember what it is to need gentleness from a world that can be hard and hurried. Remembering in this way can soften us. It can break through the illusion that we are self-sufficient, invulnerable, untouched by the struggles of others.

And when that remembering softens us, it changes how we live. We become more generous. More patient. More willing to leave something in the field for someone else. More willing to make room at the center for those who have been treated as marginal.

A Word for the Church

The church is called to be a community where the welcome of Christ becomes visible. That means being a people with open hands instead of clenched fists, tender hearts instead of hardened ones, and lives shaped not by fear but by compassion.

It means asking not, “How do we protect our comfort?” but, “How do we make room for the vulnerable?” It means resisting every voice that says, “What’s going to happen is going to happen—just make sure it doesn’t happen to you.”

That may be the logic of self-protection, but it is not the logic of the gospel.

“So let the children come. Let the stranger come. Let the hungry come.”

May we be the kind of church where they do. And may they find in us not a barrier, but the welcome of Christ himself.

The Good News Is…Together, the Impossible Is Possible

On the Third Sunday in Lent, we reflected on Mark’s account of the feeding of the five thousand and Paul’s reminder in Ephesians that God is able to accomplish far more than we can ask or imagine. In a world shaped by scarcity and fear, Christ invites us to discover what becomes possible when gifts are shared in community.

Before there was amplification, there was community.

Jesus feeds the five thousand in a way that is both miraculous and deeply communal. The disciples see a vast crowd, a late hour, and limited resources. Their conclusion is simple: there is not enough. Not enough food, not enough money, not enough capacity. But Jesus refuses to let scarcity have the final word. Instead, he tells them, “You give them something to eat.”

That command is as unsettling now as it must have been then. Jesus does not deny the reality of the need. He does not pretend the problem is smaller than it is. But he also does not allow the disciples to remain spectators. He invites them into the work. He asks them to participate in the miracle.

That is part of the good news of this story: in Christ, God’s abundance becomes real not only through divine power from above, but also through shared human participation below. Voices carry the word. Hands pass the bread. Communities discover together that the impossible is possible.

This week, I found myself reflecting on that truth through the idea of amplification. Our church is currently considering replacing aging audio equipment in the sanctuary, and it got me thinking about how Jesus spoke to enormous crowds without microphones, speakers, or soundboards. He had no modern tools of amplification. Instead, his message was carried by people.

Maybe that is how good news has always traveled best: from person to person. A word spoken here, repeated there. A phrase caught by one listener and passed on to another. Before there was electronic amplification, there was community. In a very real sense, Jesus’ followers became his amplifiers.

The same is true in the feeding of the five thousand. Jesus could have acted alone. He could have dropped a feast from heaven into the crowd’s laps. But he chose not to. He chose to involve the disciples. He chose participation over spectacle. He chose a kingdom in which people are not passive consumers, but active participants in grace.

That matters because the disciples’ posture is one we know well. It is the posture of scarcity. There are too many people. It is too late in the day. We do not have enough. And yet Jesus looks at the very same situation and sees something else entirely: a community that has not yet realized what is possible when people bring what they have and place it in God’s hands.

A year ago, our own congregation faced a version of that same question. We were discerning whether to convert the youth lounge into a temporary homeless shelter for women over the summer. The questions were practical and understandable: Do we have enough space? Enough volunteers? Enough money? Enough flexibility? Enough energy?

Those were not foolish questions. But beneath them was a more spiritual one: if we open what we have to others, will there still be enough left for us?

That is exactly the question that lingers in Mark 6. The disciples see the math of insufficiency. Jesus sees the possibility of shared abundance. “You give them something to eat,” he says. In other words: bring what you have, offer it together, and trust that in God’s hands, shared gifts can become more than enough.

By God’s grace, that is what our church discovered. We took the leap. We opened our doors. We welcomed our neighbors. And we found that when we placed what we had into Christ’s hands, God provided every space, volunteer, resource, and bit of courage we needed.

That is the promise echoed in Ephesians 3:20–21: God is able to accomplish abundantly far more than all we can ask or imagine by the power already at work within us.

I also shared about Sand River Community Farm in Keeseville, New York, where food is grown and shared not as a commodity, but as a gift. There, neighbors work together not for wages or profit, but so that others may eat. They do not speak of “free” food, because “free” can imply something without value. Instead, they speak of food as gift—something precious, cultivated through labor, care, and community.

Their witness asks a challenging question: What if we stopped believing the lie of scarcity? What if we saw food, money, time, compassion, and even our voices not merely as possessions to protect, but as gifts to share?

Jesus says, “You give them something to eat.”

Not just you watch.
Not just you admire.
You give.
You carry.
You pass it along.

The good news is not just that Jesus once fed a hungry crowd long ago. The good news is that Christ still confronts our fear of not-enough. Christ still teaches communities to speak a different word: a word of gift, a word of mercy, a word of enough.

And that word still travels through people.

Through voices.
Through bodies.
Through neighbors.
Through communities willing to trust that, together in Christ, the impossible is possible.

There is enough for all: enough food, enough housing, enough healthcare, enough mercy.

Together, the impossible is possible.